


Shadow's Run

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Cursed!Stiles, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Quests, hiredsword!Cora, hiredsword!Derek, hiredsword!Laura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and his sisters are hired swords to see Stiles and Scott safely to a destination they refuse to disclose. Derek expected a job, but his silent client peaks more than just his interest.</p><p>(permanently shelved/discontinued--see author's notes for more details.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a collaborative effort, and because the other half of this project is no longer available to work on it, it will not be completed.
> 
> i, as the writer (though not the idea's originator), had a lot of fun plot points for this story. i intend to reimagine and reorganize those concepts into another work. there will be similarities in writing style and subject matter, so if you've enjoyed this project, i hope you'll enjoy that as-of-now upcoming solo project.
> 
> thank you for all of your kind comments and remarks thus far!
> 
> xoxo  
> salem

"Derek! Derek, wake up! It's time to go!"

And though the urgency in Laura's voice didn't go unnoticed, deep, weary dreams were hard shackles to break. Still, Derek abandoned the straw-filled mattress and reached for his armor with swiftness befitting of his sister's directive. As Derek laced up his boots, Laura leaned into the shadows of his room and peered cautiously through a small gap in the curtains. Now that he listened, his focus following his sister's, Derek could hear screams and the thundering of hooves. Many hooves.

"What's happening?" he asked, and he shrugged on his armor before gathering his weapons.

"Raiders," Laura answered. She was already dressed and armed, her mail gleaming dully in the scant moonlight. The hand around the hilt of her short sword twitched--it was the only manifestation of her concern, the only waver in her confidence, and discrete enough to typically go unnoticed. But Derek was her brother, so of course he knew. To see such grim concern pinching her brow sowed the seeds of Derek's own worry; but Laura's leadership was impeccable, her skills unmatched. His trust in her was stolid as stone.

Frowning, he buckled his sword belt. "I thought the reports said they were leagues south of us."

"So did I," Laura scoffed. "Apparently they were wrong."

"And our charges?"

"Cora is with them," she said. "The attack hasn't begun in earnest just yet. Should they prepare quickly enough, we might escape the coming fires."

An unwelcome shiver slithered down Derek's spine, and a years-old wound ached anew with the intrusive memory. He took a breath, and Laura's hand on his shoulder aided him in regaining his focus. Heralding back to those childhood moments where his mother's skirts offered him no comfort, it was Laura's gentle touch that soothed Derek's cries. Her hand in his hair, her hand along his back, her hands always strong, capable, and steady. When the air left his lungs, he was no longer plagued by the past, and his gnarled skin and gouged muscle no longer pained him.

"Good?" she asked.

Derek nodded with renewed determination.

"Then let's gather our charges."

Together, they briskly walked the hall of the inn, heedless of their heavy boots and clanging armor.

Cora hastily exited the room where their charges slept and met them in the hall, her face full of dread. "Finally!" She, too, was dressed, armored, and armed, the arrow tails in her quiver fluttering with her movements. Her studded leathers made her silent as a cat as she closed the distance between them. "By the Gods, what took you so long?"

"We were but a few moments," Laura explained lightly, her smile easy. "Derek sleeps heavy as an old dog."

Cora huffed and rolled her eyes, disapproval in her scowl as she looked at Derek. "Must you always drag your weight? Now is not the time."

"It's not," Derek agreed. "For your criticism or your impatience. I'm still your elder brother." Then, he nodded past her shoulder to the open door behind her, the darkened room beyond. "Are they ready to depart?"

The reminder served its purpose, and the impudence of Cora's fiery disposition softened. "The soft one's prepared enough, anxious even," she reported.

Exasperated, Laura said, "His name is Scott."

Cora, however, continued as if she hadn't spoken, "But the silent one is reluctant. Through fear or skepticism, however, I don't know."

"Ready the horses," Derek declared. The screams were audible even through the walls, and the inn's occupants began to stir. He addressed his sisters equally when he said, "Take Scott and prepare to leave. I'll convince the Stiles to join us."

"And if his stubbornness wins out?" Cora demanded.

"Then, I'll throw him over my shoulder and drag him out," Derek snapped. "The point is, we can't get caught in the panic. The rush for horses, the flood of people--we can't allow ourselves to be trapped when the horde comes. So, prepare to depart with Scott. Should Stiles and I fail to meet you in fifteen minutes' time, leave without us. If the raiders arrive before then, leave without us. We'll rendezvous in Sparrow Glen."

Laura's frown was reluctant, and how she eyed Derek spoke volumes of her reservation. She had, however, begun deferring to his judgment in recent years, and Derek could only pray she do so now. "Splitting up is ill-advised," she remarked. "I'd rather not chance leaving you behind."

"I'm more than capable," Derek insisted. "And smaller parties make for smaller targets."

"Perhaps I should accompany you," Cora offered, not in a challenge of his ability, but in acknowledgment of her worry.

Laura shook her head, her definitive answer leaving no room for argument, "No. You'll stay with me." To Derek she said, "No more than fifteen minutes. You get that mute to cooperate, even if you have to restrain him. I'll not lose my brother to a petty, vague escort mission."

It was then that Scott peered out from the darkness of his rented quarters. "Have you developed a plan?" His traveling clothes were worn a dingy, and his hair was rumpled from disturbed sleep; but the bag slung over his shoulder spoke of his readiness, and his smile was as kind as ever. The amiability of his disposition did little to absolve him of suspicion, however, because after weeks of only a general direction of travel, Scott had yet to reveal their true destination.

Derek had only understood Laura's reasons for accepting the job after he'd been told their compensation.

"We have," Laura said. "Is your friend ready as well?"

Chewing his lip, Scott looked over his shoulder to where, Derek assumed, his companion remained. "He insists we stay just a while longer. He says the time to leave isn't upon us yet."

"On what grounds?" Cora demanded. "What knowledge could he possibly have more credible than my sister's experience in battle?"

Scott shrugged helplessly. "Stiles has always had a way about him. I tend to heed his words, for they so often come to pass."

"Is he a Seer?" Laura asked. "Because it would have been helpful to know the raiders would strike well before they actually struck."

"He isn't a Seer," Scott said. "He just--" But he stopped, and his expression became pained. "He is my brother--not of blood, but of bond--and he ignores my warnings, yet I trust him still. I can't leave without him."

"You won't have to," Derek said. "Just go with my sisters. They'll keep you safe, and the sooner the horses are prepared and packed, the sooner we can leave. I'll speak with Stiles."

"How will you succeed where I have failed?" Scott pleaded.

As much as he wished to put Scott's mind at ease, Derek would not breathe word of the cave.

They'd made camp along the edge of a broken tree line, and the night had been so clear, so full of life, there was hardly a difference between the blink of fireflies and the glittering stars. Nary a sound was to be heard save the crackling of their fire and the hushed rhythm of supper, and even those were muted beneath the brilliant light of the moon. Had he a book with him, Derek imagined not needing the fire to read.

Stiles had been silent, as he always was, but he'd been particularly withdrawn. Normally curious and conspicuously observant, he'd instead been somehow subdued, as if he too suffered the dulling of the oppressive night.

After they sought sleep, the fire buried beneath soft, damp earth, Derek had tossed and turned as uneven ground aggravated the sinewy scar tissue burrowing through him. Nightmares typically made rest a fleeting thing until weariness forcibly dragged him into sleep, but he hadn't reached that threshold, not quite yet. Before he could resign to himself to the tiring day ahead, a touch softer than a ghosting wind brushed the upturned palm of the arm cradling his head.

Stiles knelt beside him and gentled another tentative touch against Derek's skin. Even hidden behind his cloth mask, Derek recognized his smile in the twinkle of his eye and the uplifting of his cheeks, an expression he often wore when gazing fondly upon Scott. Stiles hedged to beckon him, straightening with a waving gesture to follow, and because Derek knew sleep would not reach him, he abandoned his bedroll and followed Stiles into the forest.

Over moss-covered logs and through a trickling stream, Derek followed cloaked, silent Stiles until they came upon a cave, its mouth well hidden behind thick overgrowth and remarkable hanging, flowered vines. Stiles looked back at him with eyebrows arched imploringly, then carefully pulled aside the obstructing plants and disappeared into the darkness. After a moment's survey of their surroundings, Derek followed. Stiles' outline was a difficult thing to find, and Derek couldn't help but startle when Stiles' hand covered his eyes. He hadn't needed to be told to keep them closed--he actually hadn't needed much explained to him by way of Stiles' requests at all. With a gloved hand wrapped around his wrist, he guided Derek through the dark. He didn't know how Stiles navigated the tunnel, but their steps had been sure and quiet, only their breaths echoing in the dark. But then the air suddenly cooled, and Derek smelled the wet and the damp.

A fleeting, leather-clad fingertip skated the slope of his nose, and Derek blinked in response. Upon opening his eyes, he was overcome with the sight of a brilliantly glowing cavern, gentle blue light--almost like moonlight--emanating from so many mushroom caps clinging to the cave walls. Some pulsed in an indiscernible rhythm, while others radiated to various degrees. Among the mushroom caps, small insects like fireflies, but not quite fireflies, fluttered from platform to platform of the fungi.

After standing before him, Stiles took both his hands and lead him further into the cavern with careful, backwards steps. Once they stood in the cavern's center, Stiles pulled down his cloth mask until it hung about his throat like a scarf; and Derek discovered plush, pink lips forming a smile more lovely than any he'd imagined--a secret Derek immediately deemed worth protecting so keenly. His pale cheeks were lined with a smattering of beauty marks up one side, but they quickly darkened beneath Derek's scrutiny. Perhaps he had stared too long. When his lips moved, no sound came with them, but Derek had seen the words they formed: "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," Derek admitted wondrously. "How did you know of this place?"

"Magic," Stiles mouthed with a playful wave of his fingers. But then, his smiled broadened, and his shoulders shook with soundless laughter.

Derek had chuckled as well. "Why did you bring me here, though?" he couldn't help but ask. "Surely this wonder would be appreciated by the others. After so many days of travel--" He let his speech die when Stiles emphatically shook his head. "Why not?"

Softening his smile, Stiles had mouthed, "Just for you."

Despite the rush of heat flooding his face, Derek had tried to mitigate the shocked flattery staggering his thoughts. "Why?"

Stiles shrugged, averting his gaze. His lowered head made it impossible for Derek to read his lips in the dim lighting, though they moved.

"I didn't understand you," he said, regretfully.

So, Stiles lifted his head, and fierce determination hardened his sharp features. "I like you," he mouthed, enunciating each word, demanding Derek understand. "You have immense strength and a beautiful heart and I like you." He sighed, then, and something snapped in his expression, something Derek couldn't identify. "You don't have to return my affections. I don't expect you to. I just wanted to tell you. Alone."

"And if I might return them?" Derek pressed. Because as professional as he'd attempted to be, he'd still noticed the lines of Stiles' body beneath the leathers of his traveling garb; he'd still seen the nimble fluidity with which he moved his hands in an effort to communicate; he'd still been enchanted by the expressiveness of his ale-brown eyes. Laura had lectured him about his pining in private, warned him of his own bleeding heart, but still his gaze was drawn to Stiles again and again despite the danger.

Stiles' lips had quirked then, challenging and impish. "Then I might like to kiss you."

Derek ached to his bones for the sound those words would make aloud. Instead, he murmured, "I might like that."

A step, a gasp, a lean, a caress. Stiles' lips were as soft as they looked, and their sweet taste summoned a soft growl from somewhere deep in Derek's chest. It rumbled further when Stiles fisted his shirt and yanked Derek closer to him, devilish tongue licking hungrily into his mouth. He slid close to Derek, pressed their bodies flush, and cupped his jaw with both hands. Derek, for his part, had barely managed to clutch Stiles by the hips before abandoning what little remained of his sense to better memorize Stiles' touch. Silent still, Derek simply relished every little hitched gasp or sigh he gave, and answered them with small moans of his own.

After Stiles reluctantly pulled away, Derek traced his cheek with uncertain fingertips, awash with relief when Stiles nuzzled his palm. "Might this be the only kiss I have with you?" he asked.

Stiles had shaken his head, smiling sweetly. "Only if you wish it so."

"I don't," Derek confessed.

Scott might have been Stiles' brother in bond, but Derek held Stiles' affection. The kisses and hours of moonlight stolen together may yet prove more convincing than a brother's reedy pleas. "I can be particularly persuasive," Derek drawled.

Laughter bubbled from Cora's throat. "A gross underselling of your skills, brother."

And if Scott paled by a shade or two, no one made mention of it.

"Go," Derek insisted. "We haven't the time to waste. Leave me with Stiles. We'll meet you soon."

Laura nodded her curt agreement, and with a hand against Scott's back, she and Cora ushered him down the stairs.

The inn patrons roused, and the ruckus outside gained momentum. A knife's edge of dread crackled through the air. It was only a matter of time before word spread of the impending raid, and with it, violent panic. After seeing Scott and his sisters safely down the stairs, Derek entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Stiles stood at the window, dressed as if prepared to embark, but the square of his shoulders and how his arms crossed his chest attested to Scott and Cora's reports of his stubborn willfulness. It might have been an alluring quality when they disappeared together in the night, but in such a state of emergency, it was inconvenient at best.

"Why do you insist on staying?" Derek implored, though his tone hedged closer to a demand. "I know the encroaching danger hasn't escaped you. The bloodshed it brings."

Without turning, Stiles bade Derek to his side with a wave of his hand.

His sigh was put-upon, but Derek obeyed. Before the glass, he followed Stiles' pointed finger, an indication of some vague spot on an indiscernible horizon in the darkness. After squinting hard enough for his head to ache, he waited a heartbeat longer and saw it--the faint flash of lightning, purple and ominous, heralding a storm. Seething terror sunk all the way to his boots. "What is it?" he breathed. It appeared far off, days away should the winds stay calm, but he couldn't shake how his skin prickled.

Stiles turned Derek's face to him with an insistent finger hooked along his jaw. He pulled down his cloth mask and, once sure of Derek's attention, mouthed, "Magic storm."

"There's such a thing?" Derek pressed.

Nodding, Stiles added, "Very powerful. Dangerous."

"It's leagues away. The raiders are here now."

With his fore and middle fingers, Stiles pointed to his eyes, then to the storm, then his eyes again, and shook his head. "Don't trust what you see."

"Stiles, we must depart."

Stiles shook his head. "Unpredictable. Better to stay put."

Derek sighed and took Stiles' hand from his face to clasp it within his own. "Raiders will burn the town to ash."

"I must stay," Stiles mouthed urgently.

"Scott and my sisters have already prepared the horses. They will leave without us if we don't meet them soon."

In a flurry of frantic movement, Stiles gracelessly yanked himself from Derek's grasp, staggering paces back to distance them. Furious, he mouthed, "I. Must. Stay," and dramatically pointed to the floorboards beneath him to make a point Derek didn't understand.

"We have to meet--"

"Then go." As the anger drained from his face, Stiles mouthed again, "Go, if you must. I will stay."

"I cannot leave you," Derek hissed. And with startling clarity, he recognized the danger within Laura's warning. Despite this, he approached Stiles in his urgency. "I _will not_ leave you."

His smile soft, Stiles gave the faintest, affirmative tilt of his head. When Derek strode across the room and cupped Stiles' face in his gloved hands, he gasped into the hard and needy kiss. He chased Derek's lips, stole another, and even in the faint light, his cheeks were ruddy. "Thank you," he mouthed.

"Scott and my sisters should be leaving any moment now," he said, resting his forehead against Stiles'. "It's safe for them to do so, yes? Even with the storm."

Stiles nodded.

"Then why would it be better to stay put?"

"Scott knows," Stiles mouthed, the words breathed softly against Derek's lips. "Scott will keep them safe."

"If anything untoward befalls either of them," Derek murmured, "I will skin Scott and feed his innards to the crows."

Laughing, Stiles pulled him into another kiss.

 

###

 

The raiders came, and with them, death.

Derek barred the door, but such defenses were laughably futile against the ravenous frenzy of a pillaging horde. The grim shadow of Stiles' frown said he knew it as well. Despite this, they remained. Every bang, every scream, dug deep into Derek's veneer, and Stiles wrung his hands while he paced the room. The raiders, however, were not just horrifying because of their brutal violence or inhumane war practices. No, a large component of their terror stemmed from their thoroughness. They left neither creatures unbutchered, nor structures standing, and their thirst of annihilation was keener than the hunger of a starved wolf pack.

The banging came to them soon enough, redoubled in effort once the door was found blocked. Bellows of demands and threats, jeers and lewd promises were unsettling as always. Stiles' quiet concern bled into something closer to fear, and Derek didn't bother to reassure him. Though he could slay the few that eked through the small doorway, he would quickly be overcome by their sheer number. Escape was their only option. Derek shattered the window pane with a well-aimed fist.

"Come," he said, knocking away the remaining shards. He reached for Stiles' hand. "Skirt along the rooftop. We'll find a vacant alley and make our escape."

With a fervent nod, Stiles accepted Derek's aid through the precariously broken window. Derek immediately followed, pressing a guiding hand on Stiles' lower back, urging him onward and keeping him steady. Mere moments after their escape, splintering wood and a loud crash marked the destruction of their meager barrier. The curses and shouts of the raiders hounded their steps, but they rounded the corner of the building before they could be spotted by their pursuers.

Loose shingles made for unsteady footing, and they occasionally buckled their knees or twisted their ankles, but by clinging to each other, they stayed aloft. Stiles' grip bruised Derek's wrist as he lead the way, frequently looking over his shoulder with beseeching, vexed eyes from under the hood of his cloak. Derek smiled when he could, nodded silent assurance and encouragement to forge onward. Between buildings, they came upon an awning low enough to safely reach the ground, and Derek took point by squeezing passed Stiles and tip-toeing along the edge of the roof. He dropped first to test the awning's stability, then dropped to the ground. Path tested, he waved Stiles forth, and caught him about the waist when he landed.

The high voices of terrified women, the lower shouts of frantic men--piercing cries cut wetly short. Derek's stomach churned with each subsequent scream, and the wailing of infants and children were particularly upsetting. He could not aid or protect them, as much as his helplessness pained him. As if sensing his distress, Stiles cupped his jaw and thumbed his cheek, but such a tender touch did not comfort him.

"I will not hear you should you be injured or attacked," Derek murmured. "So keep pace, and don't let go of my hand."

With an affronted frown, Stiles revealed twin daggers resting at either hip with a flare of his cloak.

"Your skill does little to ease my worry," Derek said, attempting to smother a smile. "I still want you close. We are better together than apart."

An acquiescing pout jutted the pillow of Stiles' bottom lip, but he shrugged amicably, receptive to Derek's protectiveness. He pulled up his mask, then extended his hand, wiggling his fingers playfully.

Derek rolled his eyes, chest swelling with fondness, and took his hand. After a grounding squeeze, he darted deeper into the ally, rounding the backs of the buildings along the town's external wall. The wall's stones were too weathered to scale, but even if they were to climb it, they'd make perfect targets for raiding archers. When they reached the inn's stables, Derek was not surprised to find it flame. Thankfully, their horses and supplies were gone, hopefully with Scott and his sisters with them. Stiles, however, still hesitated before the billowing smoke.

“They’re fine,” Derek said, though whether he assured himself or Stiles, he wasn’t sure. “They’re gone from here, well away from the danger. The raiders will pillage for days before moving on. It gives them plenty of time.”

Stiles nodded, faint but sure, and it was enough for Derek. He adjusted his grip on his hand, lacing their fingers, and nodded again after pulling up his mask. He pressed close to Derek’s heels as they barreled through the smoke, using its thick clouds as cover.

Derek could only manage the feat with Stiles at his back, with Stiles’ fingers between his own. His gaze flicked wearily, instinctively, between the smoldering, collapsing beams of the stable and the numb patchwork of his body. Skin long seared and scarred offered no indication of further injury, and he needn’t suddenly faint from blood loss. Still, whatever uncomfortable brushes he had with flame went unnoticed and allowed him to course through the blaze. Whatever memories haunted him, no matter how ash always coated his tongue, Stiles was enough to focus him.

Stiles hedged closer against his back, hand fisting in the cloth of his cloak, and slammed into Derek when they came to an abrupt halt. His chest brushed Derek’s shoulder blades as he stood on his toes to peer over his shoulder into the town square.

Bodies littered the public space, hanging half-gutted over the edges of the announcement stage and several small stone walls housing decorative flora. Blood coated the cobblestone roads, glistening as if freshly wet from rainfall. Charred flesh and boiling blood clogged the air thicker than the fires’ smoke, rancid death a sour taste coating his throat. Stiles’ startled little gasp near his ear was the audible embodiment of Derek’s own feelings.

“This is why I wanted us to leave sooner,” he said. “I can’t imagine a storm as more dangerous than this--this carnage.”

After patting between his shoulder blades, Stiles gave him a light shove, an attempt at spurring him onward, but Derek’s boots were rooted. In the faces of butchered, raped women, he saw his mother. In the gnarled bodies of children, he saw his cousins and younger siblings. Amidst the chaos, Derek could only see the demise of his family. Between one dreamy blink and the next, Stiles face came into blaring focus, his eyes wide and urgent, his mouth revealed and forming rapid, insistent, silent words. By the time Stiles framed his face with his gloved hands, Derek blinked again and returned to himself more completely.

“I’m okay,” Derek managed. “I’m sorry. I’m alright.”

Brows furrowed, perplexed, Stiles didn’t seem convinced. He pressed a kiss to his lips, one Derek returned, and seemed satisfied enough with the response. Nodding in the direction of the main gate, Stiles cocked his head in question.

“They came from the south,” Derek said. “And the nearest town is due west. No one will escape through the horde. Everyone is--” And before he could finish his thought, a swarm of terrified townspeople surged across the expanse of the square. From their alcove, covered by smoke, they were safe from the rain of arrows, from the flanking groups of raiders pouring from side thoroughfares. Instinctively, Derek extended an arm and stepped in front of Stiles, his body a shield. “Come,” he said over his shoulder. “Let them serve as distraction. We’ll make our escape easily enough.”

The smoke of the burning stable, of thatched roofs, flooded the smaller allies. Impossible to navigate and impossible to breathe, Derek and Stiles, still linked by hands, instead, hugged the storefronts and building facades, crouching low behind crates and barrels when available. They traveled blocks in such a way, but armored and vulnerable as they were, attracting attention was an eventuality.

Two raiders dropped from a nearby roof to block their path, and three more rushed them from behind. Without prompting, Stiles spun and pressed his back against Derek’s, and as if coordinated, Derek heard Stiles withdraw his weapons as he did with his own. The raiders surrounded them like a pack of dogs, but if they could carve a line through them and move the fight to a more favorable place beyond the town wall, they stood a chance. Derek couldn’t convey this to Stiles, however, because between one heartbeat and the next, Stiles disappeared, and the clang of metal resounded behind him.

The two foes he faced launched their own attack, curved blades swinging in violent, precise arcs. The straight edge of Derek’s sword hooked awkwardly against the rounded weapons, grinding in jerky stutters and twisting unpredictably. A stray point caught his brow and raked his face despite his defensive stance, and he dodged just fast enough to save his eye. Swiftly kicking one raider’s knees brought the savage to the ground where Derek promptly slit his throat. The second raider’s attacks grew to a frenzy, wild swings of his blade erratic, but predictable enough to evade. Derek brought him down by slicing into the soft flesh between rib cage and hip.

He spun to join in Stiles’ fight, but found him standing alone, chest heaving, with daggers dripping blood. The three foolish enough to face him lay lifeless on the ground. He pulled his mask down, smirked and winked arrogantly, as if such skirmishes were child’s play. And maybe they were--Derek had no knowledge of what Stiles could or could not do beyond an inability to speak and an uncanny understanding of how to ensnare him utterly with only a few touches and kisses.

“Well done,” Derek remarked. Though he knew the circumstances were hardly befitting, a bit of pride wouldn’t be completely ill-placed after a victory; so how Stiles’ expression faded from curiousness to outright terror over the span of mere seconds puzzled him.

“Derek,” he saw Stiles mouth. “Derek--” but the rest was incomprehensible.

Something slammed hard into the center of his back, an impact that staggered and dazed him, and he barely caught himself before falling. The wet squelch of rended flesh, a sudden wave of iron bubbling up his throat, a crushing tightness in his chest. Stiles’ lip trembled, and when Derek followed his horrified gaze, he found a raider’s curved sword protruding viciously from the center of his chest. Closer to nightmare than reality, because though he’d been lanced before, he didn’t feel this wound. What he did feel was the boot against the left side of his back, and the contradicting forces of its pressure and the pull of the blade. The weapon’s curve snagged on his solar plexus, but it slipped free as Derek crumpled to his knees.

Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down his chest and back and flooding the trembling hand he cupped over it. He turned his blurring gaze to Stiles, his beautiful face twisting in anguish, glittering tears tracking his cheeks. Derek coughed once, then his swaying weight pulled him down heavily on his side in the mud. Still, pain did not reach him; just a deafening numbness.

Muted and removed, he watched Stiles' hands shake where they gripped his daggers, his teeth bared like an animal. His doe eyes flushed mercurial silver that drowned his pupils in liquid steel. He didn’t wait for the raider to advance or relish his kill, but launched himself through the air like a man possessed. Through the blood and mud and his fading senses, Derek saw Stiles drag his foe down into dirt, the raider’s head between his knees. Despite his thrashing, the raider could not free himself of Stiles’ precisely landed weight, and abruptly stilled when he buried his daggers to the hilt in the raider’s eye sockets. Had Derek the energy to do so, he would have praised Stiles’ skill. As it was, he barely had the strength to breathe.

Stiles stood and sheathed his weapons, then dropped to his knees beside Derek and rolled him onto his back. Derek couldn’t feel anything below his waist, but he recognized the fuzzy shapes of his legs twisted like the limbs of a child’s doll, and he recognized the tremendous, barely contained panic brimming in Stiles.

Tentative hands traced his brows, his cheeks, the line of his jaw, and if these were the last touches of his life, Derek would die happy, drinking deeply the sight of Stiles’ countenance. Stiles’ lips formed the shape of his name over and over, and that, too, was a fine final vision. He wanted to smile for the perfection of it, but even his mouth no longer heeded his will.

Stiles glided his palms down Derek’s chest to the breech in his armor, the tear in his chainmail, the seeping wound. A faint pressure Derek couldn’t discern caused Stiles to grimace, and his fingers came away bloody. He leaned forward, then, pressing his damp, trembling lips to Derek’s forehead, and everything went dark.

 

###

 

Derek awoke to darkness. Immediately, he recognized cricket chirps and rustling grass. Wind curled along the plains of his body, prickling the skin and sending him to shivers. His breath stuttered, but his chest expanded without difficulty. Caution drove him to stillness, but nimble, familiar fingers combing through his hair eased his woes; he sighed softly, marveling the absence of pain, and chased the fleeting touch. Another passing stroke and his vision returned, partially, anyway.

Firelight glowed, small and warm, beside him, close enough to soothe, and above him, a canopy of trees through which the brilliance of the night sky could be seen.

Stiles leaned into his view from above, mask in place, with an indiscernible intensity. Smears like bruises marked the tender skin beneath his glassy eyes, and his brows furrowed in the way that preceded tears. He dragged his forefinger, leather-clad as always, along the line of Derek’s stubble with soft reverence, as if overcome with disbelief.

“Am I dead?” he asked stupidly.

Stiles shook his head.

“Than how have I come to see you again?”

With hands fluttering like birds, Stiles wiggled his fingers. It reminded Derek of their first rendezvous in the glowing cave. He made the gesture every time, save when they peered a dark horizon with a violet storm mere hours--days?--before.

“Magic?” he asked, and he grinned tiredly when Stiles nodded. “Am I lame? I’m at least half-blind.”

Shaking his head again, Stiles guided his hand to his face. There, he felt the rough weave of a bandage beneath his tingling fingertips. When Stiles guided his hand down his torso, he found another bandage beneath the limp fabric of his shirt and a cloak.

Derek released a terse breath and tilted his head to meet Stiles’ gaze. “Will you not speak with me as you have before? What happened while I was unconscious?” He frowned when Stiles pressed a finger against his mouth. He caught his wrist and brought his palm to his lips, kissing it lightly despite the glove he wore. “I meant to protect you,” he mused softly. “But you protected me instead.”

His covered mouth twitched in what Derek hoped was a smile.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Stiles nodded and eased his hand from Derek’s grasp. He pressed their foreheads together for a brief, tender moment, and Derek wished he would kiss him.

“Speak to me,” Derek said, again. “Tell me what happened?”

It was with his full palm that Stiles hushed Derek again, a desperate plea in the pinch of his brow. Derek had nearly cost him his life, had negligently thrown him into overwhelming danger. Perhaps if Stiles asked for his silence, Derek could give it freely.

Instead of asking more questions, Derek coiled his muscles through the pain and drew himself to sit. Stiles’ hand splayed across his back, bracing him through the grueling process. Once seated, Derek shifted to face the fire, Stiles sitting at his side.

In the firelight, he seemed even more a ghost than when Derek had first awoken. The sun had neither extensively kissed his skin, nor was he particularly fair. But now, his skin was stark against the black cloth of his mask, his hood. His cheeks were sharper, his eyes set deeper and more shadowed. Weariness radiated from him as surely as heat from the fire, and his health seemed failing.

“I would soothe you,” Derek said, taking Stiles’ nearest hand within his own. “Your burdens are yours to shoulder or share, but I wish to offer aid should you find me worthy.”

Stiles pulled him close by the jaw, and nuzzled his nose along Derek’s. Were his mask not in place, Derek could have kissed him, and very well would have.

So close, he could not resist the temptation and raised a heavy hand to Stiles’ cheek. When he didn’t recoil, he hooked his finger through the cloth and eased it over his lips and past his chin until it fell loosely around his neck. The shadows snaking just beneath Stiles’ skin--spider-webbing up from his neck to spread like cracks in glass into his cheek--startled Derek, and he jerked away as if stung. Stiles, however, merely watched him with sad eyes before hanging his head in shame.

“What’s happened to you?” Derek asked.

Without meeting his gaze, Stiles unclasped his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders; he yanked the wrapped cloth that served as his mask and cast it aside; then he untied and unbuckled the straps of his leather vest until he could shrug out of it. Derek had never seen him so bare, and yet Stiles continued to bare himself, still. Behind his neck, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head, letting it hang from his arms. He sat there, hunched and vulnerable, staring into the flames with unblinking eyes until tears trailed his face.

A mark as black as pitch, as dark as sin, spread like rot across Stiles’ body. Concentrated most just over his heart, it reached like the branches of a gnarled tree across the round of his shoulder, down the slopes of his flank, and up the column of his neck. Its farthest reaches touched the crook of his elbow, the bottom of his ribs, and ridge of his cheeks. Derek didn’t dare look, but he imagined similar spreading along his shoulder blades and back.

“What is it?” Derek asked.

Stiles didn’t look at him as he waved his hands and fluttered his fingers, his arms still confined by his shirt. “Magic,” his pale lips formed.

Derek remembered his silver eyes, the disappearance of his pupils. He initially imagined it a fever dream, some fantastic vision before succumbing to his wounds. “You’ve never meant it in jest, have you? How magic is your reason for so many things?”

That mouth Derek so loved kissing quirked, and Stiles shook his head.

“Did healing me cause this?”

Stiles shrugged.

“Contributed, then?”

Stiles shrugged again.

Derek struggled to breathe for reasons wholly different than his wounds. “Does it hurt?” he managed.

Stiles sniffled and wiped his face with the loose sleeve of his shirt bunched around his fist. He nodded, and his tears came more steadily.

“Is it why you can’t speak?”

Another nod, and he pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face against them. His arms, wrapped tightly around himself, trembled. Where his muscles quaked, the tendrils of shadow slithered like snakes against his ghostly pallor.

Well enough past the shock, Derek eased himself across the meager distance that separated them. Steadier now where Stiles was not, he asked, “Does it hurt when I touch you?”

He shook his head, but even without his voice, his wracking sobs were wet and gulping.

So Derek touched his elbow, at the farthest branchings of rot, and dragged his hand, boldly and unflinchingly, up Stiles’ bicep. He caressed the soft skin of his shoulder, marred only by this mark, visible only by sight and absent under his touch. Stiles uncurled slightly, raising his head enough to watch Derek from the corner of his eye, but Derek was too focused on his task to parse its meaning. Stiles’ moving only allowed Derek to better map the skin so long denied him by Stiles’ secret. When he reached his neck, Stiles tilted his head to the side, his breath hitching when Derek applied light pressure and felt his rabbiting pulse. Then he reached Stiles’ cheek, and a shivery breath floated from his parted lips.

“Then I would like to touch you,” Derek said, grazing his thumb along the newest marks. “So long as it causes you no discomfort, I’d touch every inch of you, with hands and lips. I’d have you sob in something other than anguish.”

It was Stiles’ turn to jerk away, bewilderment wilding his eyes. They searched the contours of Derek’s face, and his cheeks flushed, bright pink compared to the rest of him. Flicking from his eyes, to his jaw, to his brows, even his hairline, Stiles tried to root out any falseness in Derek’s words; but he would find none, because Derek’s honesty was absolute.

“I’m not without secrets of my own,” Derek offered, as if bargaining for Stiles’ agreement. “You healed me, bandaged my wounds. I’m sure you saw.”

Stiles nodded, staring at Derek as if he were a dream. “Burns,” he mouthed. “You were burned.”

For whatever reason, Stiles had left Derek in his shirt after bandaging him, but if Stiles would bare his skin to the night and Derek’s scrutiny, Derek would do the same. So he pulled his shirt over his head much as Stiles’ had with his own, and grimaced through the ache that came with it. He knew the shiny, stretched skin, pale and tough and rigid, summoned unease and morbid curiosity within most. Even his sisters did their fair share of staring once he’d healed enough to show them. But his shoulder, his flank, and irregular swaths of his chest and back bore the marks of flame’s lashing tongue. It even managed to lick stripes along his thigh. Despite his disfigurement, however, Derek didn’t regret dragging his sisters from their burning house. With his scars displayed for Stiles’ judgment, Derek did not look away. Whether disgust or fascination, Derek would not hide from Stiles’ reaction.

Neither came. Instead, Stiles' expression collapsed into something akin to pity, but not nearly as patronizing. Perhaps understanding, or compassion. He yanked off his gloves and reached for Derek with tentative fingers, but he stopped just shy of touching him.

“You may touch them,” Derek said. “Though I will not feel it.”

So Stiles did, and whether his touch was gentle or rough, Derek couldn’t tell the difference. Even when he dragged his fingernails in a curious scratch, Derek only knew he did so because he watched it. He mourned for the first time since the scarring, for never in his life had he yearned to feel another’s touch as he did with Stiles. He kept his grief to himself, but he asked, “You aren’t...disturbed...by them?”

Stiles scoffed and shook his head. Then, he gestured to his own disfigurement, exasperated, but fond.

“Sensibilities are different in everyone,” Derek argued weakly, embarrassed.

Scoffing again, Stiles grabbed him firmly by the jaw and kissed him, an insistent press of lips that dwindled into a savoring caress.

When Derek closed his eyes, tears he didn’t know welled slid down his face.

After he pulled away, Stiles’ eyes were fierce, burning as bright as the flames of their camp fire, as powerful as the stars in the sky. “You’re beautiful,” he mouthed. “You’re beautiful, and I l--” But he paused with his tongue against the back of his teeth, confidence flagging.

“Say it,” Derek prompted. He leaned forward and stole another kiss. “Say it,” he repeated.

“You’re beautiful, and I love you.”

“You must,” Derek teased, seamlessly. “You channeled dangerous magic to save my life.”

Laughing in his silent way, Stiles pushed Derek back with a hand against his face. “Ass,” he mouthed, then promptly stuck out his tongue.

And in that moment, Derek fell even more in love with Stiles than he already was. “I love you, as well,” he said, reaching out to smooth the tufts of Stiles’ soft hair. “I think I’ve loved you since the cave.”

“I took you there _because_ I loved you,” Stiles mouthed, carefully assuring Derek understood.

Derek hummed, taking Stiles’ hand and kissing his knuckles. “Is there any way to regain your voice? I dream of hearing you say my name.”

Stiles smiled at that, blushing deeper. “Perhaps,” he mouthed. “We travel to Shadow’s Run. There, we may find a cure.”

“For your magic?”

“For my curse.”

“I trust you know the way?”

Stiles nodded, smile widening. Something like happiness changed the glittering of his eyes, and Derek thought he was stunning.

“Then I shall see to your safe passage,” Derek said. “We’ll find Scott and my sisters in Sparrow Glen, and plan a more precise travel route. Scott’s vague direction is abysmal.”

Throwing his head back, Stiles laughed with his whole body, and Derek imagined its melody ringing brightly through the night.

“Shall we depart at first light?”

His laughter died down to rippling chuckles, and when they ceased entirely, the smirk replacing Stiles' smile was _devilish_. Pressing the heel of his palm into Derek’s unscarred shoulder, he urged him backwards until he laid flat in the grass. An instant later, Stiles had somehow not only abandoned his shirt, but landed weightless upon Derek, knees braced on either side of his hips. “We depart when you’ve healed more,” he mouthed. “Until then, I wish to touch you. With hands and lips.”  Leaning close on a hand he braced beside Derek’s head, he repeated Derek’s own words while he gave his locks a possessive little tug. “I wish to make you sob in something other than anguish.”

Voice curling into a growl, Derek said, “Then our interests are aligned.”

Stiles huffed an amused little laugh, then descended upon Derek as a man on a mission.

Slinging his arms around his shoulders, Derek arched into the kiss and hoped days would pass before he was well enough to travel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek worries about the state of his relationship with Stiles when they reunite with their party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is my first time ever posting/publishing material of this nature. you can, again, blame [Infectedcolors](http://infectiouspunk.tumblr.com/) for it. or, you know, thank them for encouraging me to create/post/publish the content in the first place.
> 
> in case you haven't realized, they fuck.

Not for the first time, Derek wondered at the nature of Stiles' magic. Though its existence was indeed a revelation, the phrase quickly devolved into an obsessive thought of various iterations. _Stiles has magic_ as his plush lips trailed down Derek's chest. _Stiles casts magic_ as the tip of his cock bumped the back of Stiles' throat. _Stiles is magic_ as he wrapped his legs around Stiles' hips, and he _felt_ it down to his marrow as Stiles truly claimed him.

His recovery was a speedy one. After only a mere two days of solitude, freely given kisses and touches, and bouts of ecstasy, Stiles declared him well enough to travel. They gathered what meager supplies Stiles had salvaged in their escape and began the trek to Sparrow Glen. Had they horses, a day's ride would have them reunited with their party. On foot, the distance was at least two days' travel, perhaps three. The terrain wasn't overly punishing, and in better health Derek would have been unhindered. The dull ache in his chest from a raider blade sapped his stamina, and the ache in his hips from nights with Stiles stoked the fires of his lust to distraction. Absently, he touched a love-bite left along the column of his throat, and despite the color in his cheeks, Stiles met his eyes with an impish smirk.

"Smug, are you?" Derek teased.

Stiles shrugged, smug indeed. They walked a few paces apart, but Stiles closed the distance and took Derek's hand in his own, lacing their fingers. He brought his hand to his lips and kissed Derek's knuckles. Smug, perhaps, by his apparent prowess, but more grateful for Derek's acceptance of him. He needn't mouth the words for Derek to understand. How he gazed upon him, how his chaste touches were still reverent, conveyed his affection clearly.

The setting sun drove them to make camp, and after a small supper, weariness dragged them into each other's arms and slumber. Neither had the energy to act upon their passions, not as they had those first nights while Derek healed; but hands wandered and learned and discovered, and if kisses followed, if gasps and moans and arched backs came with it, Derek certainly wouldn't deny Stiles such pleasure.

Sweaty and thoroughly spent, Stiles' head lay pillowed on Derek's chest, their combined mess still tacky along the ridges of Derek's abdomen. Staring up at the clear night sky, he combed absent fingers through the down-soft, wild tufts of Stiles' hair. "The raiders will move on to Tarrensdale," he murmured. "It's the nearest township, though it will be a few days yet before they embark."

Stiles nodded sleepily, cheek roughing through the hair on Derek's chest, and it was all the reply he gave. His breathing slowed, and the hand curled loosely around his flank went limp.

He thought Stiles succumbed to sleep, but he wasn't left to his thoughts long before questing fingertips grazed the edge of his beard. Stiles nosed along the bottom of his jaw, and they mutually parted--Stiles to utter soundless words and Derek to read the kiss-swollen lips that formed them.

"They run from the storm."

"Should we as well?" Derek asked. His wandering touch traced the faint shadowed lines crackling up Stiles' face, an impulse Derek couldn't bear to control now that Stiles was his.

With cheeks warmed under Derek's touch, Stiles shyly bit his lip, shook his head once, then leaned into Derek's hand. His lashes fluttered on a soft sigh, eyes so tender when they opened again. "Need it."

"The storm?"

Stiles nodded.

"What for?"

Smirking, he wiggled the fingers of his free hand.

Derek chuckled, "Magic. I see."

With a wink, Stiles tapped his nose in agreement.

"You said it was dangerous. Unpredictable."

Stiles nodded again.

Derek's sigh was exasperated, and his brows pinched with his frown. "Will you explain yourself to me?"

"In time," Stiles mouthed, then he kissed Derek's temple. "Promise."

On their second day of travel, they happened upon a farmstead yet unpillaged by the raider horde. Derek was surprised to find it unscathed. Though he drank the sight of a sea of wildflowers and, beyond, a populated pasture--a necessity after the horrors of the previous town--he knew it would not remain so for much longer.

"Perhaps they've supplies to spare," Derek said, nodding towards the farm house on the hill. "And we’ve a warning to give."

Shaking his head, Stiles nodded towards the farmhouse as well, then pointed at his eyes with two fingers. "Look closer," his lips formed.

Derek did, squinting through the late morning sun until his cheeks ached and his eyes burned, but he found nothing amiss. It was quiet, sure, the sounds of farm life absent on the wind, but perhaps the owners paused for a midday meal. They'd found no tracks on their approach, so he had little cause to assume raider scouts had discovered it. When he shrugged and arched a brow at Stiles, Stiles' frustrated pout caused him to laugh. "I see nothing."

But Stiles was adamant. He made the gesture again, two fingers to his eyes, then pointing to the farm house. "Look!"

"Is there danger?" Derek asked.

As if offended, Stiles shook his head.

"Then what does it matter?"

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't fall out of his head. Then, he pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. With fingers in his mouth, he whistled high and loud, the sound piercing through the peaceful, rolling breeze. In the distance, a horse Derek hadn't even noticed raised its head in question, and Stiles whistled again, following it with a clicking of his tongue.

It answered his call, trotting across the pasture, then through the field. As if trained, it halted before Stiles, tossing about its mane and whinnying gently.

"I didn't actually think that would work," Derek remarked, awed.

Stiles blushed as he stroked the horse's head, then grinned broadly when the animal nosed up his cheek and ruffled his hair with its sniffing. He stroked the strong lines of its neck and eased out the tangles of its mane with careful fingers, all while the horse casually stamped and leaned into him.

"I don't think I've ever seen such fast friends," Derek remarked, though he dare not approach. Instead, he relished the joy in Stiles' amber eyes, the ease with which he smiled, and the softness of his expression. He watched his hands grow dingy with the dust he stroked free of the horse's coat, the way he lovingly cleared its eyes and around its nose. How much Stiles tended to the animal, though, drew attention to how much it needed tending. Derek realized it must have been days, perhaps weeks, since the horse had seen a thorough brushing or been bathed. And while it seemed in good enough health, the lines of its ribs drew faint shadows down its flanks, so perhaps it had also seen better feed.

Stiles caught him staring. He snapped his fingers once, twice, to gain Derek's attention, then arched an eyebrow. "Do you see, now?"

"The horse hasn't been tended," Derek said, and Stiles' smirk grew. "Negligence?" When Stiles shook his head, Derek tried once more, "Absence?"

Tapping his nose, Stiles clicked his tongue and winked.

"The farmhouse is abandoned."

Stiles nodded.

"And you saw that from all this way?"

Stiles nodded, and dramatically waved his fingers.

"We should probably still check for supplies," Derek said, looking back to where the abandoned structure stood. "We don't know what will be available in Sparrow Glen, or what we may encounter on our way there."

Agreeing solemnly, Stiles patted the horse's neck, then stepped around it and began the trek to the house. Derek followed, though he refused to come between Stiles and his animal companion. The grass was shorn unevenly by the unattended, scarce livestock--it sometimes brushed his knees, or barely reached his ankles--but the flowers were lovely and, when the wind turned just right, their scent was enough to nearly mask the animal smell. As they drew near the farmhouse, its warped wood and dilapidated  shingles became clearer. Equipment and tools littered the area leading up the front steps in various stages of weathering and neglect, rust crawling up metal, and weeds encroached upon the beaten paths around the building.

"Shall we tack the horse?" Derek asked. He eyed the farmhouse wearily. Though it was slowly succumbing to nature, shadows through broken windows still provided enough cover for an assailant. "Can your magic tell if the house is well and truly empty?" But he didn't look away to see Stiles' response. He set their supplies down and withdrew his sword before ascending the meager steps of the front porch. He tested the door with a tentative press of his hand, and though the wood creaked beneath his touch, the door was firmly closed. Clenching his jaw, Derek braced himself, then kicked the door--it collapsed beneath his boot into splinters, speaking to its decay. Nothing attacked him.

Cobwebs clung to everything within like the silk drapes of a high end brothel, and grey dust covered all surfaces as thick as fresh fallen snow. Derek covered his mouth and nose with a hand when the stench of rotted food finally reached him, whatever stores the occupants kept long unless to them. How clearly undisturbed the interior appeared disturbed Derek. Travel essentials remained, as did a sense of occupancy--dirty dishes to be washed, mildewed laundry to be hung--but he could fathom neither rhyme nor reason to suddenly abandon the house. Despite the unease rolling through his coiled muscles, Derek searched the house, and found much of the same in every room: abrupt vacancy. He found a ring of keys in one of the bedrooms, and brought it out to where Stiles waited.

"It's curious," he said. "It seems they left in a hurry, though there's no sign of packing or departure."

Stiles brows pinched in worry, and he seemed particularly troubled. "Gone?"

"Apparently," Derek sighed. Then, he raised the keys and nodded towards where the barn stood behind the house, previously hidden from view upon their approach. "Tack?"

Stiles nodded and closed the distance between them. As he took the keys from Derek, he pressed a kiss to his lips, so sudden and sweet, Derek sucked a breath and moaned as if wounded.

"Stiles..." his traitorous mouth uttered as Stiles pulled away; because this was neither the time nor the place to succumb to his thrall.

He licked his lips thoughtfully, and the sight made Derek's knees weak--he'd made the same, blissful, expression after swallowing Derek's seed, as if _savoring_ the taste. He must have known the effect it would have--he had to--because Stiles smirked teasingly before smiling outright. He kissed Derek again, careful to keep his dirty hands from touching him, but pleased enough when Derek took him by the hips.

"This is becoming a problem," Derek sighed a little breathlessly. "We'll never get anywhere should you constantly drive me to madness. I can hardly _think_ , Stiles."

After dragging his damp lips up the edge of Derek's jaw, Stiles kissed his pulse, then pulled away. The pink in his cheeks spoke of either equal desire or embarrassment, and Derek couldn't determine which. Stiles just bit his lip and gave a quick nod before twirling the keyring with purpose and making toward the barn.

Derek adjusted how his cock strained in his breeches before following.

 

###

 

Thankfully, the horse proved able to bear their weight and what little they scavenged from the abandoned farmhouse. The barn itself had been as worn as everything else with rafters whining dangerously as they tested the horse tack. It seemed sturdy, and once the horse was prepared, they mounted and quickly departed. Though Derek thought to take the reins, often left to guide the horse while one of his sisters slept against his chest, Stiles made it apparent the horse was _his_ in whatever fashion. So, while Derek still rode with another before him, Stiles kept the reins, occasionally clicking and whistling low to the animal.

Unwilling to ride the animal to death, Stiles kept it at a steady, comfortable pace, and its cadence lulled Derek into a doze. He rested his head against Stiles' shoulder, slung his arms around his waist, and tucked his hands into the leather of his belt. It kept them firmly close, and Derek safe from falling should he slip into a deeper sleep. Every so often, Stiles would reach back and pet Derek's hair; sometimes it jarred a little hum from him, others he kissed Stiles' neck.

As the sun began to fade into its nightly reds and golds, the quaint village of Sparrow Glen broke the stretching horizon.

Stiles roused Derek by rolling his shoulder until Derek sat up and moved his hands from Stiles' belt to his hips. At Derek's questioning grunt, he pointed to the silhouette of the buildings, and grinned at him. He clicked his tongue, and gave the horse a light kick to speed up its trot, just skirting a gallop. Whether to beat nightfall or to simply quickly rejoin their party, Stiles' racing the last bit of their journey drove a strange disappointment into Derek's chest as surely as a stake.

He'd only just discovered the wonder of sleeping with Stiles in his arms, of waking to Stiles' gentle touch and tired smiles. No one knew of their late-night trysts on the road, their kisses within the shadows of dark trees in darker woods, and this, too, Derek assumed, no one would know: how they'd tasted of one another's bodies, how Stiles had driven lightning down Derek's spine with every rock of his hips. He wasn't prepared to hide his desires or affections again, not after such blissful days spent adoring Stiles without fear of retribution.

How Stiles drove the horse onward, harder than he'd ever pushed it thus far, allowed Derek to question the depths of understanding to which he and Stiles had come. Confessions of love, shared moonlight passion--these were private, sacred things, things that could be preserved with fondness in memory alone should Stiles wish it so. A brief moment of ecstasy to be savored only while it lasted. Derek's heart would not allow him such respite, though he would respect Stiles' wishes regardless. After having Stiles, Derek knew he'd never want to be without him. Instead of giving life to his doubts and encroaching heartache, Derek simply wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist to pull them flush. Should he never have the opportunity to do so again, Derek would take every moment he could.

Upon reaching Sparrow Glen, Stiles eased his demands of the horse, and it slowed to an easy walk. The inn was clear enough to find once they came upon the town square, but so was the smithy. Derek reached around Stiles and guided their mount a different way. Stiles stiffened against him, perhaps affronted or confused, so Derek simply said, "I've armor in need of repair."

The explanation seemed to put Stiles at ease, as he released the reins and leaned against Derek's chest for the short trip to the smithy. Derek dismounted and entered the shop; it blazed with the heat of the forge, manned by a skilled and amiable smith. Price negotiations were quick and efficient--Derek haggled little, and the smith assured him the repair would not degrade the integrity of his chest piece--so he unbuckled and unlaced his armor, then left it there. Lighter and quicker without the weight, Derek felt vulnerable, almost skinned, as he rejoined Stiles, and the evening particularly cool despite his cloak.

Stiles watched him with inscrutable eyes, a gaze leveled over the cloth of his mask he'd donned once more. Without the shape of his mouth, Derek felt grossly ill-equipped to assume his intentions.

A sudden apology burst from his lips, unbidden. "I'm sorry for the detour. I'm sure you're anxious to return to Scott, but I'm equally sure you want your skills to remain hidden from my sisters."

Cocking his head to the side, Stiles' brows pinched.

"I imagine you would have mentioned them sooner, should you have wished otherwise," Derek continued, "and my sisters would question the nature of my armor's damage should they see it."

The tension coiling in Derek's gut eased when Stiles nodded, and though a hand was offered to mount the horse, Derek opted, instead, to walk. Just across the square, Derek saw little need to ride the distance, though how Stiles' shoulders slumped caused him to reconsider.

Together, they tied and unpacked the animal in the inn's meager stable. To their delight, they recognized their old horses--the ones Scott and Derek's sisters had taken--tied and tended as well. They'd escaped the raiders and the storm, and reunion waited for them just beyond the doors of the inn. Shouldering their single bag, Derek made to depart, but Stiles stopped him by the wrist.

"What's the matter?" he asked around a smile. When he turned to face Stiles, the mask hung loosely around his neck. "Don't you wish to see Scott?"

Stiles' lips parted to speak, but then his jaw went slack as if his thoughts escaped him. Or perhaps he opted not to utter them. He frowned, though, and gazed at Derek as if searching for something. When his brow pinched like anguish, it prompted Derek to drop the bag and collect Stiles in the circle of his arms.

Rubbing his back, Derek said, "We've escaped the raiders. We've found our party. What troubles you so?"

Against his shoulder, Stiles shook his head. After stepping out of Derek's embrace, he scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his shirt and smiled, though it seemed forced. "Nothing," he mouthed. "I'm alright." He pulled his mask up once more.

Then, Derek forced a smile of his own, one as secretly weak as his heart. He took Stiles by the hand and led him into the inn.

Cora spotted them before the others, and even before she shot out of her seat--"Derek!"--he'd found her amongst the other tavern patrons. She'd sat with Laura and Scott at a table near the back, the only of the three watching the door. But the moment she raised the alarm of their arrival, Laura and Scott stood as well.

Laura, ever steadfast, merely smiled at Derek across the busy tavern, a discrete tilt of her head in a show of relief--he would speak with her later, as was their custom. Cora and Scott, however, weaved separate, though equally excited paths through the sea of patrons to meet them.

Cora launched herself at Derek hard enough for him to drop his bag, but it felt good to hold her again, so Derek just embraced her in return. From the corner of his eye, he watched Scott and Stiles embrace, as well, their sincere relief and joy palpable even to him.

"We thought you were dead," Cora mumbled into Derek's chest. She pulled away with a distraught pout that quickly fell into a disapproving frown. "Where's your armor?"

Smiling gently, Derek said, "Damaged, so I left it with the smithy on our way here."

"And what happened to your eye?" She stood on her toes and squinted with her face mere inches from his.

"My...?" Derek flinched when Cora's curious hand touched the wound, torn flesh above and below his eye. He'd taken the bandage off to see, but hadn't given the injury itself much thought. It no longer bled and that was enough.

Beside her, Scott flinched, hissing between his teeth when he, too, noticed Derek's injury. "You'll need stitches for that," he remarked, "or infection could set in."

"It's a wound," Derek grumbled. "Infection could set in, regardless. Besides, I'm not even sure this town has a healer."

Scott laughed, his grin a touch playful. "My mother is a healer," he said. "I could tend you easily enough."

"You've the supplies?" Cora asked, surprised.

"In my bag upstairs," Scott answered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. "Stiles is particularly clumsy, so of course I carry medical necessities."

Stiles huffed, annoyed, and shoved Scott's shoulder. The tender flesh above his mask turned a delicious pink, and Derek couldn't help smirking.

"Come," Cora said, linking arms with Derek. She even gathered his bag. "We've already secured a room for you. Settle in. We'll send up supper and Scott can thread your eye. Afterwards, you can tell us about your daring escape."

 

###

 

As per their usual arrangements, Derek had a rented room to himself; though usually the smallest of their temporary accommodations, it never bothered him because he preferred what quiet he could get when he chased sleep. Now, however, his quarters were cramped, and the itch that came with entrapment was a feat to endure. He tapped his fingertips against his knees and stared at the tired ceiling above him.

Laura leaned against the closed door with arms folded across her chest, waiting patiently for her opportunity to speak with him alone. Her gaze was level and a touch ominous--he hadn't quite spun a developed enough tale to tell her about his and Stiles' escape, or why Stiles had even insisted to stay behind in the first place. Instead, he'd merely alluded to the harrowing encounters with raiders, enough to sate her for a while, at least. Scott's work on his face would have bought him precious, desperately needed moments, but the curved needle so near his eye scattered his thoughts like startled birds. Beside him on the bed, Cora perched on bent knees, leaning as close as possible to study Scott's work while Scott himself held Derek still by the jaw and all but loomed over him. Her incessant questions, though innocent enough in curiosity, steadily ground the last of Derek's nerves. He wanted to silence her with a sharp word or send her from his presence so that he may be stitched in peace, but he knew neither of his sisters would leave him unsupervised in Scott's care.

Stiles lingered in the room, too, forcing the entirety of their traveling party into Derek's ever shrinking quarters. Surely his sisters assumed he didn't want Scott alone with the three of them--a healthy level of reservation still permeated their party even after weeks of travel--and that was acceptable to Derek. He hoped, however, that Stiles stayed for his sake as well, not solely for Scott. Stiles failed to crowd Derek, far be it, though, for Derek to mind him near. Beside the small window, Stiles leaned with arms folded and face weary, watching the path of Scott's needle with unnerving intensity. He was easy for Derek to see from the corner of his eye, the vision of him comfortable despite the awkward angle of his neck in Scott's hold.

"Stiles didn't do a bad job of tending you," Scott said, making conversation. It was a wonder he managed the remark given Cora's onslaught of inquiries. "But the wound should have been stitched much sooner. You'll have a scar, I'm afraid."

"It wouldn't be the first," Derek muttered, "and it certainly won't be the last."

"Well, worse than it would have been had you been stitched sooner, I mean," Scott clarified.

Cora laughed, "It will only add to your rugged charm, brother. The mysterious, brooding warrior, scarred from battle, yet somehow still so very handsome."

Derek needn't twist his head in Scott's grasp to swat Cora's arm. Scott sighed long-sufferingly when the movement still jarred Derek's face.

With a faux horrified gasp, Cora held her arm and said, "You _dare_ strike your younger sister? What a brute!"

Derek drawled, "Had I a more compassionate younger sister, perhaps she needn't be reminded of her manners." From where he stood near the window, he saw Stiles' shoulders shake in his silent laughter, and Derek's answering smirk was pleased.

"Stop squirming and let the healer work," Laura scolded from her place at the door. "The sooner he sews your face, the sooner we can all retire."

"Your sister antagonized me," Derek retorted.

"Oh, _my_ sister?" Laura challenged. "I believe we share parents, Derek dear."

Scoffing, Derek answered, "She's your sister when she's a prat."

"I wonder where she learned it," Laura sighed. "It's not as if you always wailed for Mother and prompted Cora to do the same. Simply unfathomable."

Scott chuckled, "How long until such wailing stopped?"

"Oh, not until well into adolescence," she answered seamlessly.

Stiles laughed harder, clutching his belly with a gloved hand.

Fighting hard to keep the flush from his cheeks, Derek bit, "Crying for Mother has little to do with her current insolence. She learned _that_ from _you_."

Laura waved her hand indifferently, "She'd grown used to getting her way long before she developed her devilish wit. You simply primed her for my...tutelage."

Cora stuck her tongue out at Derek. "It's still your fault."

"Somehow, it seems." Derek sighed. "You're both insufferable."

Kissing his cheek, Cora said, "But you love us."

"I do," he admitted.

"Would be lost without us," Cora continued.

"So very lost," Derek said, rolling his eyes.

She dramatically threw herself back onto the mattress of Derek's bed. "Unable to navigate this dangerous world without our protection and guidance," Cora carried on. "Completely inept!"

Derek flatly said, "As a delicate flower, I would surely wither without the light of your sun." When Scott patted his shoulder with a soft, "Finished," Derek stood and stretched until his back pleasantly cracked.

"I'm glad you've come to accept this," Laura interjected with teasing severity. "Perhaps now you'll show proper gratitude to your benevolent and adoring sisters."

"Ah, yes," Derek said. "Proper gratitude in the form of _kicking you out of my room_." He grabbed Cora quite suddenly, enough that Scott and Stiles startled, and despite her shriek, he hefted her over his shoulder and carried her to the door. Laura opened the door for Derek with a small, amused smile, having clearly anticipated his brand of retaliation. Thus, he gracelessly dumped Cora on her ass in the hallway. "Pester me again in the morning after I've had rest." He knelt down and kissed her head like when they were children. "To bed with you."

"You're lucky you're wounded," Cora grumbled, climbing to her feet and dusting off her clothes, "or I'd sock you."

"Wouldn't want to ruin the good healer's work, would you?" Derek asked, grinning.

"Of course not," Cora readily agreed. "Your face is the only thing that feeds us sometimes. I wouldn't dare jeopardize such a sure meal." But then her smile softened, a reminder that all was in jest. She kissed his cheek more sincerely. "Goodnight, brother. I'm happy you returned to us safe." As she made her way to the room she shared with Laura, she announced, "But I will resume pestering you in the morning!"

"I count on it," Derek said. Returning to his room, he found Scott still gathering and packing away his supplies, and Laura now sitting on the edge of the bed. He joined her.

"I suppose we'll bid you both a good night," Scott said, heading to the door. Stiles trailed him, but cast a lingering, unreadable look at Derek.

Before they could leave, Laura said, "Stiles," and Stiles stopped. "I'd like to speak with you, as well, if you'd be so kind?"

Scott's typically amiable, warm countenance shifted into something distrusting and uncertain. Carefully guarded, he met Stiles' gaze, then said, "Stiles can't speak," as if they didn't already know. "Surely Derek can tell you everything you need of their travels."

"Then allow me this," she said, standing. She approached Stiles with an extended hand, and when he cautiously took it, she pulled him into an embrace. "Thank you for tending my brother's wounds and seeing him safely back to me."

After she pulled away, Stiles nodded emphatically, eyes glittering with what Derek knew to be a smile beneath his mask.

They left, and after seeing the door closed, Laura turned to Derek. "What happened?"

"We narrowly escaped, but we did escape," Derek said. His gaze drifted to the window where Stiles had stood. "Stiles wanted my vision to clear before traveling, should we run into any more trouble, so we waited two days before departing to rendezvous."

"And your armor? You said it needed repair?"

Derek looked at his sister with flat annoyance. "Indeed. Did you think my eye was cut with my own sword?" The firm set of Laura's jaw prompted him to continue without direction. "We encountered a small group of raiders as we left the town. We were victorious, obviously, but not unscathed."

"Stiles was injured, then, too?"

"He's our charge, Laura," Derek sighed. "Of course I protected him. It's what we're hired to do."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Laura asked, "Did you ever discover why he wanted to stay behind? Scott mentioned something about a storm while we waited for you."

"Yes, that's true. But Stiles doesn't talk."

"He communicates well enough."

"Through gestures and snaps and whistles," Derek argued. "That can't possibly explain a potentially complex set of desires or justifications."

Tilting her head curiously, Laura narrowed her eyes, a gaze beneath which Derek felt suddenly skinned and gutted, unsteady. Unable to face such scrutiny from her, he decided his boots were much more fascinating to gaze upon. "You're keeping something," she said.

"I'd never lie to you," Derek insisted.

Gentler, she said, "I know." She kissed the top of his head, much as he had with Cora, then said, "Sleep, brother. I trust your judgment, and I trust you'll come to me should you deem something appropriate."

"I will," Derek promised. "Goodnight."

 

###

 

A single candle burned in his room, a lone flame into which he stared while sleep eluded him once more. With each drop of wax sliding down its side, Derek regretted his wastefulness, of letting the candle burn when for so long darkness had suited him just the same. He'd never let his sleeplessness consume precious resources or disturb his sisters' rest, content enough with his thoughts and the night's rhythm. This night, why his routine brought him no peace escaped him. Nothing was amiss, yet he was ill at ease.

He dared let his mind wander to thoughts of Stiles, hoping memories of his taste and touch would distract him from the nameless change he couldn't identify. Despite the wash of fondness pooling in his chest, thoughts of Stiles brought him no comfort. They only served to remind him of how large the bed felt, how cold the night was, how silent the room without another's breath beside him. Frustrated, he fisted the sheets and willed his longing away. Such pining did him no good. Stiles gave no indication their liaisons would continue past their peak, and to yearn for such neared dangerous and distracting fantasy. Yet Derek wanted him, still.

The door opened, the creak at his back as loud as a crack of thunder. Instinctively, Derek clutched the knife beneath his pillow, but remained still. Breathing steadily as if in sleep, he waited. It wouldn't be the first time an intruder was foolish enough to enter his room; but either thief or assailant, they would eventually provide an opening for Derek to strike--they always did. He reconsidered, however, when the door clicked shut. _Perhaps an assailant and not a thief._

When the mattress dipped near the small of his back, Derek spun. With his knife clutched in one hand, he grabbed the would-be assailant by the neck and prepared to slit his throat. He stopped, however, the moment he recognized who had entered his room.

Stiles perched awkwardly with one knee on the mattress and a foot on the floor, and wore nothing but a plain shirt and soft pants. He swallowed, and Derek felt his Adam's apple bob beneath his thumb. Though he promptly released his grip, Stiles remained as he was, hands raised in a universal, non-threatening gesture, eyes unguarded. He trained his gaze on Derek's face, but the knife Derek wielded surely hadn't escaped his notice.

"Stiles," Derek breathed. He scrubbed his face and set the knife beside the candle on the bedside table. "I could have killed you." Falling back onto his pillow, he sighed, still rattled while Stiles slid to sitting on the edge of the bed. "What are you doing here? Is something the matter?"

Any regret Derek had for burning an unnecessary candle disappeared when Stiles mouthed, "Wanted to see you." Watching him from beneath his lashes, Stiles smiled, shy, and slid tentative fingers along Derek's wrist. Up his arm, they went, then across his shoulder to his bare chest, where his gentle touch sent Derek's heart racing. "Wanted to be with you."

"You are always welcome company," Derek said, and he was hardly at fault for the tremor in his voice as Stiles' hand trailed down his chest, along his quivering stomach, and well beneath the meager covering of the sheet. He bit back a groan when Stiles finally reached his fattening cock and consciously kept his hips from searching for those first questioning strokes.

Before Derek could too quickly fall into lust, Stiles caressed his cheek and cupped his jaw. Derek blinked dazedly at him--a mere fleeting touch of Stiles' sent him to stupidity--but read the words, "Is this alright?" on his lips. "May I touch you?"

"Yes," he sighed, relieved and frustrated in equal measure. "Touch me, kiss me. I don't care, just--" His words failed him when Stiles pulled away only far enough to shed his shirt. His pants quickly followed, the pair of them a pile on the floor. Derek welcomed him into his bed, wrapping him within the sheets and dragging him into a kiss.

Half atop him, Stiles' hand was careful against his wounded face, though the hunger of his lips made up for the gentleness of his touch. It didn't linger there long, however, and again, his hand traveled down the length of Derek's body. A thumb pressed against his pulse while Stiles nibbled his bottom lip. Nails scratched lightly down the side of his neck and along his clavicle while Stiles rocked his hips against him. Derek moaned when Stiles reached his chest and, after combing through the patch of dark hair, circled his nipple with those ghosting fingers until it was hard enough to pinch. Derek's back bowed, but Stiles silenced his groan with a devouring kiss.

Derek tangled his hand in the soft strands of Stiles' hair and tugged, ripping a ragged, gulping gasp from his silent lips. How Stiles arched dragged his leaking cock against Derek's hip, a sticky trail in its wake. Derek rolled until Stiles was pressed between his weight and the mattress, keeping his head back with the hand in his hair to bare his throat. He nipped, sharp and demanding, along the edge of Stiles' jaw, heedless of the webbing black marks, until he sucked hard at the bolt. As Derek's battle-calloused hand caressed the trembling plains of his body, Stiles’ breath stuttered, short little gasps and sighs, then a hitched sob when Derek finally reached his cock.

Holding it in a loose fist, Derek hummed contentedly into his neck when Stiles thrust anxious hips against his hand. He didn't fuck his fist in earnest, however, until after Derek had generously licked his palm and tightened his grip. Stiles clutched at Derek's wrist to near bruising, his other hand pinned beneath Derek's body and helpless to aid him. Derek tugged his hair again, rougher, and Stiles' back arched a few more degrees. Mouth open and panting, his desperate breaths edged toward sobs, and Derek stroked him still, encouraged by the steady throb in his palm.

Stiles' muscles quaked, his stomach fluttering beneath the soft underside of Derek's arm, but his hold on Derek's wrist shifted from a wanton clutch to a punishing halt. After curiously pulling away from sucking a love bite into the column of Stiles' neck, Derek saw his name and 'wait' repeated cyclically on Stiles' swollen lips. So, Derek slowed his stroking, thumbing the head of Stiles' cock instead, and released his hair.

Face pinching through waves of jolting pleasure, Stiles managed to find and meet Derek's gaze, soft, blown eyes imploring as his hand wrapped around Derek's own and stopped his touching altogether.

"Have I hurt you?" Derek murmured, his hand limp where Stiles guided it away. "I'm sorry," he began, "I shouldn't have--" But Stiles covered his mouth to cage his apologies.

"Not like this," Stiles mouthed, carefully enunciating each word.

Confused, all Derek could do was nod in agreement. Stiles' hand fell away, and the impulse to apologize further must have been obvious in his expression, because Stiles kissed him, sweet and sure.

"Lay back," Stiles mouthed, and pushed gently at Derek's shoulder until he laid flat on his back. With grace Derek could only describe as ethereal, Stiles rolled to straddle Derek's hips, strong thighs easily holding him mere, tortuous inches above Derek's aching cock. With his palms resting against the anxiously quivering muscles of Derek's abdomen, Stiles' wore a sultry pout and asked, "Does this please you?"

Of course it pleased him, but Derek still didn't understand. Perhaps Stiles took his bewilderment as reservation, because his confidence waned incrementally. Derek managed to summon words before Stiles had opportunity to assume rejection. "I only thought--because we've always, and I merely..."

"If that is your desire," Stiles mouthed. He drew Derek's hand to his mouth and bit lightly at the tip of his finger before swallowing it the way he swallowed his cock. Derek shuddered, but couldn't look away from Stiles' flushing cheeks and lidded, amber eyes, how his hair was wild where Derek had fisted it. Then, he dropped those few inches and rolled his teasing hips until Derek gasped. "Or we could do this." He pulled Derek's hand around him until his fingers traced the crease of his ass. Down, down, Stiles guided Derek's hand until he found his hole. Derek’s broken whine was unbidden, impulsive, when he found Stiles stretched and slick.

He eased a finger into him, and Stiles pushed back against Derek's hand, biting his lip. Stiles gave a frantic little nod, then met Derek's finger with small, aborted thrusts. Tentatively, Derek added another, and Stiles' thrusts sped.

"You planned this," Derek murmured, enamored and aroused and amazed. His cock twitched where it strained, angry and red, against his belly.

Stiles nodded and met Derek with a breathless smirk.

"You-- _prepared_ \--for this."

With pinched brows, Stiles shifted his angle, and Derek thrust into him harder until his jaw went slack. Stiles nodded again.

"How?" Derek managed. "You room with Scott."

"Scott's a heavy sleeper," Stiles mouthed. He eased away from Derek's enthusiastic hand and leaned down to kiss him with insistent lips and questing tongue. After pulling away, he mouthed, "Will you fuck me?"

" _Yes_ ," he breathed, ravenous in his hunger. He planted his feet more firmly on the mattress, and as he raised his hips, Stiles rose on his knees as if choreographed. Derek took himself by the cock, squeezing tightly at the base; he swore by the Gods to perform to Stiles' expectations, despite how easily he hurtled toward oblivion's precipice. He could have found his release by Stiles' hand while suckling his neck and been plenty satisfied. But if Stiles wanted his cock in such a manner, Stiles would have it.

He took him by the hip and needn't have guided him, but did so anyway. Stiles was strong and limber, and hovered just so over Derek to nearly frenzy him. Lifting his hips, Derek nudged the tip of his cock against his ready hole, using its weeping head to slick him further. Unsteadily, he met Stiles' expectant gaze and asked, "You're sure?"

Stiles smiled gently and nodded. He wrapped his hand over Derek's at the base of Derek's cock to help hold him still, then slowly sank down upon him. Inch by inch, Stiles lowered himself until his thighs trembled, pacing his breathing, watching Derek intently. When he met their fingers, Stiles guided Derek's hand away and shifted until Derek was snug within him, flush against him. There, he leaned back infinitesimally until he bit his lip. Derek lowered his hips to the mattress, and Stiles' knees folded; he sighed deliciously and stroked Derek's abdomen with endearing fingers.

Perched as he was and cast in the soft glow of the candle, Derek had never beheld a more beautiful sight than Stiles in that moment. However lovely the moonlight, however wondrous the stars, bare and bathed in the light of a single flame's golden hues, Stiles was a vision. His unruly and impossibly soft hair, matted with sweat; the play of shadows dancing across the soft lines of his face; his honeyed eyes glittering with affection Derek had never known before. The curse that plagued him and stole his voice was a concentrated center of starless sky over his heart, its reach a nest of snakes slithering across his skin. But even this flaw was perfection to Derek as he dragged his rough palm up Stiles' flank to eventually cover the mark. The softness of his flesh felt no different, and if Stiles' gentle sigh was any indication, Derek's touch felt no different, either. A few scars marred his body, pale nicks Derek had missed in moon and starlight he now traced with fleeting fingertips; and even fewer mottlings of greens and yellows of healing bruises from their skirmish with the raiders. Stiles was neither pampered nor weathered, yet his every contour felt made for Derek's brutish hands. And while Derek had known several nights of the pleasures of Stiles' body, _seeing_ Stiles' body, so clearly, so unabashedly, was a pleasure all its own.

Derek nearly startled from his reverie when Stiles drew his hand to his face and nuzzled his palm. "Are you with me?" Stiles mouthed. He rolled his hips and yes, Derek returned to the delicious immediacy of Stiles' flesh.

"You're stunning," Derek stammered, voice cresting with each wave of Stiles' movements.

Though his plush bottom lip was still caught between his teeth, Stiles preened. The color in his cheeks rose, but then he _moved_ as if to distract them both. His hands rested loosely against Derek's stomach, tracing aimless patterns or light scratching--a point of contact instead of a point of balance. No, as Stiles rose and fell on Derek's cock with sinuous fluidity, he needed neither holds of Derek nor from Derek to keep steady.

Derek's admiration left him but a tool for Stiles' pleasure in his hesitation. But soon enough, his palms itched to touch and savor, so he clutched Stiles' thighs and felt the faintest tremor of strain. He pressed his thumbs into the divots of Stiles' hips, relishing how his muscles coiled with every roll of his hips. He traced the hills and valleys of Stiles' flanks when his back arched, then rolled the buds of his nipples between his calloused fingers until Stiles reflexively tightened around his cock. With a punched out grunt, his hips jolted upwards, jarring Stiles hard enough to steal his breath.

Before he could launch another litany of apologies, Stiles pinned him with an impassioned, scalding stare. "Again," he mouthed.

Sliding ginger hands along Stiles' damp skin, Derek stroked his thighs. If he trembled, it was in anticipation. If he hesitated, it was in uncertainty. When he met Stiles' gaze, throat dry, he nodded in tentative agreement. "Alright," he murmured. With another, affirming, nod, he took Stiles lightly by cheek. "Stop me if I hurt you."

Smirking wickedly, Stiles mouthed, "You won't."

"As you say."

Using his planted feet for leverage, Derek pushed up into Stiles while pulling him down by the waist onto his cock. Though he meant to make Stiles gasp--a sharp sound Derek wished had voice--he helplessly groaned as well. Another thrust, another gulp of air, and their rhythm developed quickly.

No stranger to the pleasures of a man's body, Derek found Stiles particularly sweet. His delicate flush, bleeding down his neck to bloom across his chest, only darkened with each resounding slap of skin. His sweat dampened form so luminous in the candle's glow. Leaking and angry, his heavy cock, which had brought Derek such exquisite pleasure their nights of solitary travel, smeared sticky-slick through the trail of hair along his belly. But it was the smattering of beauty marks across his pale skin, the bob of his Adam's apple, and how his lashes fluttered that slowed the stampede of Derek's lust; because though Stiles was delicious, Derek wanted to _savor_ every detail. Instead of slamming into him, Derek pulled him so their hips were flush and rocked a small arc deep within him. He couldn't quiet his efforts or his pleasure, and how Stiles dug his nails into his abdomen only made it more difficult.

Pleasure coiled low in Derek's pelvis. Watching Stiles take such pleasure from his body flushed away the last vestiges of reason. To know how he threw his head back and gasped his shuddering breath skyward was Derek's doing, and quite the heady rush of power, indeed. But Derek's measured pace soon bored Stiles, and true bewilderment set in when Stiles took Derek by the hands, linked their fingers, and stopped moving against him altogether.

"Stiles...?"

"What are you doing?" Stiles worded, the smile of his plush mouth fond.

"I--um..." And how, so steeped in slow-burning lust, could Derek be expected to answer? How, with enchanting Stiles delectably speared upon his cock, was Derek to find sufficient words to describe the bone-deep desire to give him every pleasure, every joy and happiness for the rest of his life?

"You love me," Stiles mouthed.

Derek's heart throbbed.

"And I love you, too," Stiles continued. "You don't have to show it always."

Confused, Derek's frowned and anxiously bit his lip.

"I know it," Stiles' kiss-red lips formed. "You know it. So we may simply _enjoy_ one another." And he clenched around Derek's cock intentionally until Derek groaned. After kissing Derek's palm, he mouthed, "Do you understand?"

All he could do was dumbly nod.

"Good," Stiles mouthed. He leaned forward then, and kissed Derek in earnest. It sent Derek's skin buzzing, electric pleasure sparking through his limbs until his hips jerked of their own accord. He whined when Stiles pulled away, but was glad to see his lips form, "Now fuck me."

Derek nodded again. It was a task he could complete, a directive upon which he could deliver. He shifted and sat up, and Stiles anticipated it to shift with him. He wrapped his arm around Stiles’ lower back; and, leaning into his hold, Stiles draped his arms over Derek’s shoulders.

Stiles bit his lip and rocked his hips. “You feel like Heaven.” He slid his deft fingers into Derek’s hair and hauled him into a kiss.

Unable and unwilling to silence himself, Derek moaned. He caught Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth, flicking his tongue over the captured flesh.

Stiles shifted again until their chests were flush. It limited Derek’s movement significantly, but left him perfectly prone for Stiles’ use. And use him, Stiles did. Resting his forehead against Derek’s he panted short and ragged, eyes slipping closed, taking what he needed, what he wanted. Derek’s useless hands felt to his hips, granting Stiles a stability he didn’t need, but Derek loved feeling his hips roll in his grasp.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Derek purred, tucking his nose beneath Stiles’ jaw. When Stiles dropped his head back, Derek bit sharply near his Adam’s apple to make him gasp.

But then he nodded, urgent. “I do,” he mouthed. “Gods, Derek, I do.”

Huffing a gentle, cocky laugh, Derek smirked with renewed confidence. “Then let me.” His grip on Stiles tightened, but again, he needn’t speak his intentions--as always, it was as if Stiles already knew. So, when Derek leveraged himself against the bed and rolled them until Stiles was comfortably beneath him. Stiles leaned with the motion, and they, blessedly, avoided awkwardly tangled limbs.

With his thighs clamped about Derek’s hips, and the pair of them still blissfully joined, Stiles bit the bottom lip of his devilish smile. After carding his fingers through Derek’s hair, he tugged lightly, and arched his spine in a sinuous wave that had Derek’s breath caught in his chest.

Despite the enigmatic pull always drawing him to Stiles, Derek pulled back enough to offer a steady, exploratory thrust, the force of which Stiles mitigated with graceful counter-movements. Though Stiles beneath him might serve his needs more, Derek desperately wanted Stiles to be just as pleased. Supported by an elbow braced beside Stiles’ head, he asked, “Good?”

Stiles nodded and dragged his nails down Derek’s back. “Fuck me.”

Derek skated his calloused hand down the soft skin of Stiles’ thigh until, with a grip behind his knee, he hitched his leg a little higher. He needn’t have prompted Stiles to mimic the movement with his other leg, and how Stiles tightened around him was enough to briefly rattle his concentration. He’d never known a lover to be so demanding and so impudent in equal measure. But if Stiles intended to purposefully thwart Derek’s efforts, well, he’d would have his own consequences to face. Derek bit hard at Stiles’ clavicle in retaliation, leaving a red mark he knew would fade into a pretty bruise; Stiles hissed and bared his throat, but his smirk said he knew he’d been caught.

“Good,” Derek murmured. Then, he slid his arm beneath Stiles’ back and hooked his hand over his shoulder. With a palm braced against the wall, he forcibly moved Stiles with his cock still inside him until he found his balance. When he glanced downward, he found ale-brown eyes swallowed by the darkness of desire, pink brightening to red on the highs of Stiles cheeks. He leaned in and lightly kissed Stiles’ sweaty hairline, then he pulled back and thrust into him in earnest.

They fell into a fast, punishing rhythm. His hand on the wall leveraged against his hips, and his other on Stiles’ shoulder let him pull his writhing body to meet his every jolting movement--it gave him careful control of how he fucked Stiles, but it did little to control how the bed moved beneath them. Their fevered skin, slick with sweat, smacked upon each meeting, and eventually, Stiles’ arms abandoned their clutching and scratching of Derek’s shoulders to, instead, twist into the limp pillow beneath his head. His mouth and jaw worked, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and, ultimately unable to keep pace, he succumbed completely to the wish Derek fulfilled; Derek had every faith Stiles would yowl louder than a cat in heat had he the voice to so do.

As it were, Derek watched his lashes flutter, his lip swell with every capture between desperate teeth, his knuckles pale with the strength of his grip on the pillow. Between them, his throbbing cock, caught between their sweaty bellies, was a line of silken heat Derek wished he could worship as it deserved. He kept the pressure between them as tight as he could, allowing Stiles to fuck between them as he fucked Stiles, and for a while, Stiles did just that. Though he couldn’t push into or against Derek’s cock, he did roll his hips at every opportunity, smearing sticky-slick against their already wet stomachs.

Stiles couldn’t give the vocal cues of a lover cresting in his pleasure, so Derek became hyper aware of the physical ones. Stiles’ movements lost their graceful fluidity, and his breath staggered unevenly between hitches and gasps, small bated breaths as if his lungs couldn’t match his thundering pulse. When the wave crashed upon him, it was as if Stiles’ hips were severed from the rest of him, their movements completely at odds with the rest of his body, enslaved by the _yes, yes, yes_ of his silent lips and the occasional _Derek, please._

Derek knew the feeling well; he wasn’t far behind. Panting Stiles’ name and praises into the damp column of his neck, too uncoordinated to do much more than breathe and drag his lips against his skin.

When Stiles suddenly went rigid as a board beneath Derek, his hot seed spread wetly between them, coating their skin and his cock. He clenched impossibly tight around Derek, and knowing such bliss to be fleeting, Derek quickened his pace, chasing his own tumble into oblivion while locked so close within Stiles. Stiles’ quivering, _unraveling_ , under him was enough so that only a scant few jerks of his hips later, his own body seized. His mouth clamped hard on Stiles’ shoulder, beside where his hand held him with a bruising grip, but despite how he emptied himself into him, Derek couldn’t stop how he still twitched, as if consumed by some primal instinct to _claim_.

He didn’t feel human again until Stiles’ fingertips massaged his scalp while gently stroking through his hair. He heaved gulping breaths, dazed and disoriented, and somehow still suspended upon Stiles.

Stiles, seemed sated however, if the lazy kiss he pulled Derek into was any measure. His tongue was a slow, sweet thing that caressed his lips until his mouth fell open, and Derek could taste him in turn.

Derek hummed contentedly, still alight and brimming with ecstasy, but easing down with Stiles’ careful touches. A confident hand down his spine pressed insistently against his lower back until Derek conceded and rested his weight against Stiles. It was then he noticed how the hand he’d braced against the wall was numb.

Soundlessly chuckling--Derek felt his ribs flutter--Stiles helped Derek lay beside him, cradled against his chest, as if aware of how his muscles both cramped and burned for the strength and control of his fucking. Lacing their fingers, Stiles massaged Derek’s tingling hand until the blood returned to it. Then he kissed his knuckles before releasing it to grab a corner of the bed sheet and wipe the mess between them.

It wasn’t Derek’s intention for Stiles to shoulder the burden of the aftermath. Somehow, he believed it _his_ responsibility to care for Stiles always, to clean him and assure he’d lay comfortably in Derek’s bed for the rest of the night. But Stiles did these things, mopping up their cum and sweat, natural as anything, despite how it had, in fact, been Derek’s duty on the road. From where he lay bonelessly, uselessly, with his head against Stiles’ chest, Derek said, “I love you,” and kissed the hot, damp skin over the darkness of his curse.

Stiles huffed another silent laugh and kissed the top of his head. The shape of _I love you_ was fast becoming a thing Derek recognized pressed against his body.

Blankets and sheets were too confining, and their fucking made the small room warm and balmy, so they laid bare on the mattress. Derek listened to the steady throb of Stiles’ heart, the eerie echo of his chest hollowed where his voice had been stolen, and traced absent patterns through the hair below his navel. His cock lay limp and damp between his legs, and how he didn’t shy away from Derek’s touch only endeared him further. A light doze enveloped him, defenses falling away in the safety of Stiles’ arms, and he could have stayed in such a state the rest of the night.

Stiles, however, tapped rousing fingers against Derek’s shoulder until he was snatched away from encroaching dreams.

“Hmm?” Derek propped himself on a trembling elbow to meet Stiles’ gaze.

“Do you hear it?” Stiles mouthed, eyebrow twitching upwards in question. His stroked Derek’s back with light fingertips.

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

Groaning in frustration, Derek hung his head, but did as Stiles bade. The fingers against his back moved to the space between his shoulder blades, then into his hair as both reward and encouragement. Somehow, through the thudding emptiness of his exhaustion, he heard it--the faint rumble heralding--“The storm?” he asked.

Stiles nodded.

“So we haven’t escaped it,” Derek murmured. He looked up to find Stiles shaking his head. “What shall we do?”

“Wait for it.”

Sighing deeply, Derek laid against Stiles’ warm, welcoming body once more. “Again?”

Stiles nodded. Pressing his lips against Derek’s hairline, he mouthed, “It will be here by morning.”

Though the thought deeply troubled Derek--the oncoming storm and how his sisters knew nothing of it--beneath Stiles’ deft fingertips, enveloped by the scent of Stiles’ skin and the sheets marked of their fucking, he found the weariness settling into his bones a lost battle.

“Sleep,” Stiles kissed against his skin.

So Derek did.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
